#MasturbationMonday: Goodbye Gifts

A beautiful hardcover journal with an intricate, gold-leaf design etched into the cover. A raw amethyst necklace, bound up in silver wire and hanging from a long, shining chain. A single red rose.

Sir laid them out onto the table before me at the end of dinner, in that brief time when all of the dumplings are gone but the panna cotta has yet to come. He gave no explanation, no warning– he simply said, “Choose one.”

My first instinct was for the journal. I seem to have a fetish that borders on sexual for books with empty pages. But then again, the necklace was too lovely. I so rarely wear jewelry– I pretend it’s for political reasons, but in reality, I tend to lose nice pieces the very night I first wear them. Fine jewelry just doesn’t seem to suit me. I grew up too poor to have many aspirations for diamonds and pearls. But Sir knew all of that– which was why he had chosen the amethyst, dark crystalline purple and just as rough as I was.

In the end, though, I picked up the rose, and he smiled.

“Smart girl,” he congratulated. “Now… tell me why.”

I looked down at the soft red lines of the petals, full in bloom.

“They’re all beautiful– really— but this one… should be enjoyed while it lasts.” I smiled coyly. “You don’t buy me flowers often enough to let this one wilt.”

“I could burn the journal. Toss the necklace into the river.”

“But you wouldn’t.”

“No? Wouldn’t I?”

“No,” I said, grinning. “Because you’re playing a game with me, for one, and for another, you don’t want me to break your nose if you fucked either of the others up.”

“They’re too pretty to be fucked up,” Sir agreed, matching my smile. “Unfortunately for you, kitten, you’re so pretty I can’t resist.”

A hotel. Soft lighting. A city view.

Sir’s hand on my ass and the rose against my cheek.

He slipped my dress off of me from behind. No bra, no panties to shield me from him beneath. A garter belt, crimson hold-up stockings, and my black Mary Jane heels. He pushed me to the window and positioned me before it, legs spread, wrists crossed behind my back.

“The whole city could see you from here, babydoll. Four million people all taking in every inch of you, if they would only just look up.”

“Some might be,” I pointed out.

Sir’s palm met the left curve of my ass hard and without warning.

“They might be,” he agreed. “And I want you to remember that for what comes next.”

I squirmed in my place and Sir spanked my right cheek to match the left. It was a dangerous mix of nervousness and excitement, the concept of being watched. My veins were full of adrenaline, either way.

From behind, Sir took the rose and traced the petals down my body. Long, elegant neck. Sharp collar-bones. Full, heavy breasts. Bold ribcage. The soft, flat expanse of my stomach, down to the dark curls that cloaked my pussy. The smell of its bloom was thick in the air, or maybe it was only the rose-oil perfume at my neck and my wrists. He brought the rose up again, but the time there was nothing soft. A thorn against one nipple, just hard enough to make me cry out, not so hard to draw blood. More thorns against my lips as he pushed the stem between my teeth and I held it in my mouth.

“Don’t let that fall from your lips, pretty girl,” he growled against my ear.

I could hear him unclasp his belt from behind me. Sir only takes me to hotels in our city when he’s about to leave for business and he doesn’t want the neighbors to hear me scream.

“Breathe in through your nose,” he instructed me. “Take in its scent. By the time I’m done with you, you’re never going to be able smell a rose without thinking of me ever again.”

In the morning, he was gone, but the marks he left were not. The bruises he had left on my ass from his belt; the smudges of our palms against the window, from where he had bent me over and fucked me, owned me, made me scream through my teeth. An explosion of petals beneath the window from after, from the way he had taken the bloom and smashed it against my skin, streaking breasts and thighs and stomach a fragrant red.

On the bed beside me was the journal, the necklace, and a whole bouquet of roses– two dozen of them.

This post is part of Kayla Lord’s Masturbation Monday. You can read more of my sexy antics in my Masturbation Monday tag! Hungry for more Monday lovin’? Head over to the Masturbation Monday masterpost (we’re on week 27)! I update my blog every Monday with sexy scenes from my own crazy life. For submission rules and former weeks, check out Kayla Lord’s blog: A Sexual Being.



#IndiaReads: Live from Saltwater Sally’s by Jay Gaudette

It’s weird.

You have to go into this one acknowledging it’s weird, accepting that it’s weird– maybe even liking that it’s weird. Gaudette’s quirky sense of humor and unapologetic delving into the dirty, the filthy and the shamelessly smutty will leave you loving it by the time you leave.

The format is unusual– it’s set up like a script, which takes a bit of easing into– and the premise is fantastically otherworldly. The universe of Jay Gaudette has been shaped by pure erotic fantasy, and no one is safe– especially when it comes to the plight of poor field reporter Julie Crookshank (you’ll laugh! You’ll cringe! You’ll be… oddly envious?)

Between blowjobs, gangbangs, age play and more, there’s a little something for everyone. Just remember– it’s weird. It’s weird, and you like that.

This smutty short story is available on Amazon now!

#IndiaReads: Generation Game by Secret Narrative

It’s an explosive meeting of the erotic and the literary. The whole thing is brilliantly voyeuristic– like you’re reading the innermost thoughts of a real person at their dirtiest, their most depraved.

Secret’s prose is gorgeously intricate– the pacing is divine– but the protagonist, Sylvia, is the real draw to this piece. It’s a sexy down-the-rabbit-hole sort of narrative as Sylvia becomes more and more wanton, more and more immersed in her own power to claim her sexuality.

Every story is a different sort of conquest– to the point where I wasn’t even sure who was claiming whom anymore, and I loved it.

You don’t usually feel this classy after delving into the erotic– it left me in need of a man with an Irish accent and a glass of wine.

This sexy collection of five erotic stories is available on Amazon now!

Masturbation Monday: Two Tongues


I couldn’t help it.

I called her up.

Haunted all week long by the brief moment we shared last week (and still aching from the spanking that I got as a result), with Sir’s permission I fished the number of the girl with the blue hair out of my purse and invited her over on Saturday night. To my excitement, she accepted.

When she turned up, her hair was bright red this time– Cherry red, just like her name.

I felt like we were quoting Scott Pilgrim to each other as I asked her, “Do you ever keep your hair the same color?”

She replied, “No. Why would I?”

Sir’s apartment is in Melboune’s CBD, in the heart of the city. The three of us sat on the balcony and smoked joints and drank Guinness, watching nervous, horny men and groups of drunken partiers slip into the Club X across the street.

“Have you ever been?” Cherry asked.

Sir and I looked at each other and laughed.

“Once,” I said, “You put a $2 coin in the slot and watch a woman wearing a cowboy hat shoot ping pong balls out of her snatch.”

“I would like to see that,” Cherry said. Her hand was on my thigh, creeping upwards toward the edge of my dress. Her nails were red too– even redder than her hair.

“Maybe some other time,” Sir said, rising. He stood behind us, a hand on each of our shoulders. Cherry and I looked at each other and giggled. We had been planning it all week.

Knees to the ground, fingers on Sir’s belt. Anyone could have seen us– so many apartments have such a clear view of Sir’s, and the balcony offered little privacy. By the time we had his pants down, he was already hard. A pale, willowy redhead and a busty, tanned brunette, on their knees before him, licking their lips and staring down his cock– how could he not be?

I let Cherry give the first lick.

We took turns, starting at the base and working our way up to the head, one of us on each side. After every lick, there was a tantalizing pause– for Sir, anyway. Our lips met as we traded off, tongues running against each other, teeth pressing down on each other’s lips. It was hard to say who was enjoying it more– Sir, or the two of us.

Unable to keep our mouths off of each other, we compromised by wrapping them around Sir’s cock, one of us on either side, and working up and down the shaft while our lips met in the middle. Our tongues worked the underside, tasting as much of each other as we were pleasuring Sir. Then, while Cherry took his cock into her mouth, I licked lower, sucking Sir’s balls into my mouth one at a time. As I finally sucked both between my lips at once, Cherry took Sir’s cock so far into her mouth that I could see the lump in her throat. We tried to kiss then too and failed– not all blowjob mechanics work out quite so perfectly the first time around.

While Cherry’s tongue was occupied with the head of Sir’s cock, my tongue felt like wandering elsewhere. Down her neck, across her collarbone; I knew Sir was being well taken care of, and it had been too long since I’d been with another girl. I untied Cherry’s halter top and tugged it down roughly, over her breasts so that my tongue could taste her nipples. Their sweet, puffy pinkness needed more than my tongue, though. My teeth, cruel and teasing, scraped against one then the other. I’m notoriously rough with my girls.

A finger beneath her skirt told me exactly how much Cherry liked having her nipples tortured. She was sick all the way up to her clit, and I was dying for a taste. But just as I was about to suck my Cherry-soaked finger into my mouth, Sir pulled me up to his cock again by a handful of my hair.

“Mouths open, tongues out,” he said to both of us. “Eyes on me.”

And so we did. Kneeling there on the cold tile of the balcony, our tongues hanging out like the wanton whores we were for him, we watched as Sir finished himself off, aiming long strings of cum across our faces and chests. I felt a spurt drip down my cheek and smear across my lips, watched as another stream hit Cherry’s tongue and spill down onto her breasts.

“Now,” Sir said to me. “Lick it off of each other. Don’t swallow.”

As if we needed to be told.

The light, salted vanilla of Sir’s cum mingled with the taste of Cherry’s skin as I cleaned it from her face with my tongue. Slowly, I licked the glob of white from the pale pink of her tongue, gathering it all up in my mouth. I sucked it off of the round teardrops of her tits, licked the tiny drops that had fallen on her forehead and held the cum beneath my tongue as she did the same for me.

My lips, my cheek, my collarbone and the curve of my left breast. We gathered up all of the cum on our tongues and opened our mouths wide to show Sir what good girls we had been– although, at that point it was hard telling whether it had been for his benefit or our own.

“Mm. Lovely,” Sir said. “Now… Kitten,” he said to me, and I looked up at him with wide eyes. He was using that tone of voice that every submissive knows all too well– the tone that says he has something especially terrible in mind.

“Spit it all into Cherry’s mouth,” he said. It didn’t sound like an order, but with Sir, it never needed to. When he had me in the floaty black velvet of subspace, I did whatever he wanted.

Slowly, I straightened and let the cum in my mouth fall into Cherry’s.

“Don’t swallow,” he reminded her, and she nodded. “I want you to spit it into her ass.”

I could tell why Sir had made me pass my cum to Cherry before sharing that detail with me. With the way my jaw dropped, I would have been licking it all back up off of the floor.

“Cheek against the ground, ass in the air toward her. Spread yourself for her.”

The tile was especially cold against my cheek. I always keep my ass ready for Sir to use… I just hadn’t been expecting that. Reaching back, I worked my fingers into the tightness of the hole, spreading it as much as I could.

The cum was warm and gooey as Cherry trickled it in.

“Not done yet, Kitten,” Sir said, and I felt something cold and slick press against my ass.

The butt plug.

I had been on a skype call with him when I bought it, back when we were on different continents and I had been sent to the sex shop with his credit card periodically to pick up “naughty things”. The plug is bulb shaped, clear glass swirled with a gorgeous purple.

He fitted it into my ass slowly, the lubrication on it working with the slickness of the cum. When it was all the way in, I could feel myself clench around it tight. It felt massive– just short of uncomfortably full.

“There,” Sir said, patting my ass. “Now none of it will leak out.”

As I kissed Cherry again, licking the scant remnants of his cum from her lips, I discovered he was right– none of it did.

This post is part of Kayla Lord’s Masturbation Monday. You can read my first encounter with (then, blue-haired) Cherry here: Blue Hair, Red Lips (A Train Station Tryst). Hungry for more Monday lovin’? Head over to the Masturbation Monday masterpost here (we’re on week 26)! I update my blog every Monday with sexy scenes from my own crazy life. For submission rules and former weeks, check out Kayla Lord’s blog: A Sexual Being.

Masturbation Monday: Blue Hair, Red Lips (A Train Station Tryst)

I was on acid and she smelled like whiskey, which was probably why I liked her so much.

“I would really like to kiss you,” I told her. We stood side by side, looking at each other’s reflections in the mirror as we washed our hands.

“Oh,” she said, and then: “Really? Why?”

I shrugged. “I dunno,” I said. “It just seems like I ought to.”

And she said “Okay. Kiss me, then.”

The lingering fragments of my sobriety told me that I hadn’t really planned for her to say yes. But I was high, impulsive; all my nerve endings were vibrating on a level of caution-to-the-wind spirituality that had suddenly focused all sensation to my lips, both those above and those below. I was already wet, and it occurred to me that in that moment, I had great power– I could make her wet too.

I cradled her jaw in the palms of my hands, feeling it’s delicate weight. When I get drunk, I grow hardened, heavy, but she was as soft and sweet and light as a dove grey raincloud. Her hair was like a cold wind, icy blue all around in the Melbourne heat. Her lips were like biting into a sun-ripe nectarine, all juicy and sugar against my mouth.

I picked her up by the waist and spun her into a bathroom stall, locking the door behind. Her breath was humid, boozy and vanilla as she pulled away from me, and for a moment, I thought she might have changed her mind. But we were both lost, both slaves to our lack of inhibitions. I bit into her neck and felt her tense, cry out against me and buck her hips against mine. There was perfume on her collarbone: roses. She wore a black Beatles tank-top, so tight her breasts were nearly spilling out of it. A single tug downward on my part sent them tumbling out. Full, rounded teardrop tits and pale pink nipples; I had my mouth on them immediately, teasing each with my tongue and my teeth. They were pierced. As she whimpered and trembled, I withdrew, pulling down the neckline of my own dress. So are mine.

Her eyes were wide as I settled my hand against the back of her head and applied pressure, forcing her to lower her mouth to my breasts as well. Her irises were the most intriguing color of blue, a pale aquamarine with a burst of green just around the pupil and flecks of gold all through. Her skin was surprisingly milky pale, the kind that’s hard to attain under a hole in the ozone layer that lets in so much hot Australian sun.

She sucked at my nipples like they’d been coated in honey, flicking her tongue against them until I was moaning too.

Soon it was over, just as quickly as it started. I remembered my boyfriend, waiting for me outside; she remembered her friends, waiting for her at the train station. She slipped her number into my hand, written on the back of a credit card receipt. I set my mouth to her nipple one last time, the left one, biting down on it with slowly increasing until she was thrashing against me and grinding her cunt against my leg.

And then she was gone, walking on weakened knees outside of the bathroom and into the night. There was nothing more for me to do but to follow at a distance, watch as she turned down a tunnel and out of sight.

“What took you so long?” he asked, an eyebrow quirked in suspicion as I straightened out my dress and returned to his arms.

“Her name’s Cherry,” I said, flicking the receipt at him. The smile on his face as he studied it told me two things: firstly, that he was already hard, and secondly, that I was going to get one hell of a spanking when we returned home.

This post is part of Kayla Lord’s Masturbation Monday. This is my first time participating, but we’re on week 25 (featured here)! I’ll be updating every Monday from here on out with sexy scenes from my own crazy life. For submission rules and former weeks, check out Kayla Lord’s blog: A Sexual Being.



Katie in Love by Chloe Thurlow

Opening up Chloe Thurlow’s Katie in Love is a lot like slipping into the perfect bath after a long, hard day. It’s the perfect temperature, warm enough to make you sweat. The water is the most gorgeous shade of lavender– no, not lavender, but instead Katie’s signature pink. There are rose petals floating in the water, candles lit all around; the air is deliciously humid, floral with hints of something darker– leather, maybe, or sandalwood. Best of all, the bath is drawn in one of those gorgeous old tubs with the claw feet, but it’s big enough that your whole body can sink down into it, right up to the bottom lashes of your eyes.

It probably sounds like I’m romanticizing Thurlow’s work– but I’m not. There’s something incredibly intimate about Katie in Love that does all of the romancing for me. There were times when reading Katie left me feeling like I had just seen the author naked– and Chloe, if you’re reading this, consider me seduced. There’s a definite sense of voyeurism to the piece, a floaty realism that leaves one wondering how much of the story is fact and how much is fiction. Katie in Love is both erotic and elegant, delicate but bold.

It’s a hell of a story, in the most classic sense of the word. They just don’t write books like this anymore. Thurlow spins a tale like she’s traveled to us from a classier time to bring fine literature to the masses.

The primary plot is basic– as basic as all love stories are, when you get right down to it. Katie Boyd meets  sex bomb doctor Tom Bridge at a New Year’s eve party and they do the deed; a romance blossoms, a bond is formed, the sex is magnificent and the banter is to die for. But Katie is no simpering Austenesque regency heroine who can’t step out in the rain without catching a deadly cold. She’s an intellectual, a former catholic school girl with a naughty side. Katie meets her friends at lesbian bars, writes erotic novels and forms trysts with her tutors that are just as educational in the books as they are naked, on top of them. And Tom is no General Hospital extra, either– he’s running a non-profit for children in Sri Lanka and running away from the kind of ex-girlfriend that every one of us fears deep down inside.

The thing about this book is that it’s honest, honest in the most fascinatingly baring ways. It’s not just Katie that one feels emotionally entangled in after reading; it’s Thurlow as well, her writing, her poetic patterns of speech and her particular way of teasing out the most intimate of details with her words.

You’ll never read another book like it again– and it’s ripe for a second read.

Katie in Love is out on March 21 and available for pre-order now!

Love Drugs: He Bought Me LSD for Valentine’s Day


My first-ever Valentine’s Day present was a mixed CD of songs I didn’t like and a short story re-envisioning me as a fairy princess victimized by her family and rescued by a halfling. As far as Valentine’s presents go, while certainly creative, it wasn’t very flattering. After all, I’m usually more into dwarves anyway, and I’ve always been the kind of girl who can rescue herself.

The next gentleman to shower me with gifts on Valentine’s day bought me handheld mixer (as a college student without an oven, let alone a kitchen) one year and a laundry basket the next. There was no third year of disappointment for that man; I was already off and away to greener, less domestic pastures.

Rarely do I accept gifts graciously. I was raised to meet presents with “Oh no, you shouldn’t have, it’s too lovely, it’s too much!” The culture of gift-giving often says more about the giver than it does the receiver. The first man wanted me to conform to his tastes in music, to play the role he wrote for me in his fantasies. The second man wished for me to conform to his concepts of gender roles, to take up the place that his own mother had previously filled in his life. Both men obviously knew me to an extent– I do love music, and I do love baking– but neither honestly knew the real, genuine me.

So imagine my surprise when this year, my boyfriend bought me acid for Valentine’s Day.

While the rest of the world was doing fine dining and roses, moonlit carriage rides or screenings of the 50 Shades of Grey Movie, I was wearing a trippy butterfly-print halter dress and sipping cider in the back yard of the local drug kingpin. A band that looked and sounded like they were straight out of 1969 played rock music beneath an arbor of hanging grapes and Christmas lights while joints were passed around and slender girls adorned in garlands of flowers– and little else– swayed to the beats. Affluent Boyfriend approached me with a smirk on his face and a sugar cube in his hand.

“Eat this,” he said. “You’ll like it.” He fed it to me straight from his hand, petting my hair all the while like I was a beloved pet.

And about thirty minutes later, things started to really get wild.

Your Love is My Drug

It’s all chemicals, really.

That feeling that you get when you experience “love at first sight” is a reaction of three things: phenylethylamine, norepinephrine and dopamine.  Phenylethylamine (PEA)– which is famously known for being found in chocolate– is what kicks it all off, causing the dopamine and norepinephrine to kick in. Dopamine is closely tied with the pleasure centers of the brain– it’s the chemical that makes us feel good.  When you read a good book, eat something particularly delicious, or in this case, gaze upon that luscious man candy of your dreams, it’s dopamine that makes you feel all warm and gooey inside, like the center of a molten chocolate lava cake. As for the sweaty palms and racing heart, you have norepinephrine to blame for that.

Add in another two chemicals: seratonin, another feel-good chemical which floods your brain when you feel special or important, and oxytocin, which creates feelings of intimacy and trust and is released with both orgasm and skin-to-skin contact, and your brain is buzzing with all the chemicals necessary to create true love and a long-lasting, healthy relationship!

Your LSD is Also My Drug

Scientists seem to be a little more up in the air about what exactly acid does to the brain.  Lysergic acid diethylamide was first synthesized in a lab in 1938 from the same fungal compound that may have been responsible for the Salem witch trials. Its effects include pupil dilation and a loss of appetite– symptoms which are all too familiar for those of us who have fallen in love before. But moreso than its physical effects, acid is known for its mental effects: euphoria, color intensity, a skewed sense of time and sometimes even mild hallucinations.  Some scientists believe the effects of LSD can be linked to seratonin– that same drug that makes you feel special and connected to your significant other.

Love Trip

In a bad setting with a negative state of mind, the recreational use of LSD can be psychologically traumatizing. But when surrounded by loving, caring people while feeling good about yourself and your environment, many report spiritual experiences and an increased feeling of connectedness overall.

In my case, this meant dancing like no one was watching, kissing the boyfriend passionately, feeling overall intoxicated and pleased as peaches about it, and simply having one of the best evenings of my life.  It isn’t every day that I choose to say “fuck legalities” and run wild with my pseudo-rockstar writer lifestyle, but when I do, I make sure to make the most of it. Sometimes I didn’t know whether I was falling deeper in love or falling off the face of the earth itself– but there’s nothing like a nice Valentine’s Day romp to Beatles’ classics in the midst of twinkling lights, sparklers and stars.

In Reflection

So how did this year’s present stack up against the gifts of boyfriends past?  Quite well, actually. Where other men have tried to give me gifts based on who they wanted me to be, this year I was treated to something completely unheard of.  This year, no one was trying to change me, to mold me into something that I wasn’t or shape me into someone for personal gain. No, this year I wasn’t just given a gift– I was given an experience. He just wanted me to have a good time.

(The chocolates and roses the day after didn’t hurt either, of course).


What’s the worst Valentine’s Day you’ve ever been given? What about the best? Have any other great V-Day stories? Share them with me in the comments– I’d love to hear from you!